Never Say Die (8 page)

"I don't know. Mr. Ainh's handling the details, and—"

"Mr. Ainh? You don't mean your
tour guide?"
He burst out laughing.

"Just why is that so funny?" she demanded.

"You're right," Guy said, swallowing his laughter. "It's not funny. It's pathetic. Do you want an advance look in my crystal ball? Because I can tell you exactly what's going to happen. First thing in the morning, your guide will show up with an apologetic look on his face."

"Why apologetic?"

"Because he'll tell you the ministry is closed for the day. After all, it's the grand and glorious holiday of July 18."

"Holiday? What holiday?"

"Never mind. He'll make something up. Then he'll ask if you wouldn't rather see the lacquer factory, where you can buy many beautiful gifts to bring home… "

Now she was laughing. Those were, in fact, Mr. Ainh's exact words.

"Then, the following day, he'll come up with some other reason you can't visit the ministry. Say, they're all sick with the swine flu or there's a critical shortage of pencil erasers.
But—
you can visit the National Palace!"

She stopped laughing. "I think I'm beginning to get your point."

"It's not that the man's deliberately sabotaging your plans. He simply knows how hopeless it is to untangle this bureaucracy. All he wants is to do his own little job, which is to be a tour guide and file innocuous reports about the nice lady tourist. Don't expect more from him. The poor guy isn't paid enough for what he already does."

"I'm not helpless. I can always start knocking on a few doors myself."

"Yeah, but
which
doors? And where are they hidden? And do you know the secret password?"

"Guy, you're making this country sound like a carnival funhouse."

"Fun
is not the operative word here."

"What
is
the operative word?"

"Chaos."
He pointed down at the street, where pedestrians and bicycles swarmed in mass anarchy. "See that? That's how this government works. It's every man for himself. Ministries competing with ministries, provinces with provinces. Every minor official protecting his own turf. Everyone scared to move an inch without a nod from the powers that be." He shook his head. "Not a system for the faint of heart."

"That's one thing I've never been."

"Wait till you've been sitting in some sweatbox of a 'reception' area for five hours. And your belly hurts from the bad water. And the closest bathroom is a hole in the—"

"I get the picture."

"Do you?"

"What are you suggesting I do?"

Smiling, he sat back. "Hang around with me. I have a contact here and there. Not in the Foreign Ministry, I admit, but they might be able to help you."

He wants something,
she thought.
What is it?
Though his gaze was unflinching, she sensed a new tension in his posture, saw in his eyes the anticipation rippling beneath the surface.

"You're being awfully helpful. Why?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"That's hardly an answer."

"Maybe at heart I'm still the Boy Scout helping old ladies cross the street. Maybe I'm a nice guy."

"Maybe you could tell me the truth."

"Have you always had this problem trusting men?"

"Yes, and don't change the subject."

For a moment, he didn't speak. He sat drumming his fingers against the beer bottle. "Okay," he admitted. "So I fibbed a little. I was never a Boy Scout. But I meant it about helping you out. The offer stands."

She didn't say a thing. For Guy, that silence, that look of skepticism, said it all. The woman didn't trust him. But why not, when he'd sounded his most sincere? He wondered what had made her so mistrustful. Too many hard knocks in life? Too many men who'd lied to her?

Well, watch out, baby, 'cause this one's no different,
he thought with a twinge of self-disgust.

He just as quickly shook off the feeling. The stakes were too high to be developing a conscience. Especially at his age.

Now he'd have to tell another he. He'd been lying a lot lately. It didn't get any easier.

"You're right," he said. "I'm not doing this out of the kindness of my heart."

She didn't look surprised. That annoyed him. "What do you expect in return?" she asked, her eyes hard on his. "Money?" She paused. "Sex?"

That last word, flung out so matter-of-factly, made his belly do a tiny loop-the-loop. Not that he hadn't already thought about that particular subject. He'd thought about it a lot ever since he'd met her. And now that she was sitting only a few feet away, watching him with those unyielding eyes, he was having trouble keeping certain images out of his head. Briefly he considered the possibility of throwing a little sex into the deal, but he just as quickly discarded the idea. He felt low enough as it was.

He calmly reached for the Heineken. The frostiness had gone out of the bottle. "No," he said. "Sex isn't part of the bargain."

"I see." She bit her lip. "Then it's money."

He gave a nod.

"I think you should know that I don't have any. Not for you, anyway."

"It's not
your
money I'm after."

"Then whose?"

He paused, willing his expression to remain bland. His voice dropped to a murmur. "Have you ever heard of the Ariel Group?"

"Never."

"Neither had I. Until two weeks ago, when I was contacted by two of their representatives. They're a veterans' organization, dedicated to bringing our MIAs home—alive. Even if it means launching a Rambo operation."

"I see," she said, her lips tightening. "We're talking about paramilitary kooks."

"That's what I thought—at first. I was about to kick 'em out of my office when they pulled out a check—a very generous one, I might add. Twenty thousand. For expenses, they said."

"Expenses? What are they asking you to do?"

"A little moonlighting. They knew I was scheduled to fly in-country. They wanted me to conduct a small, private search for MIAs. But they aren't interested in skeletons and dog tags. They're after flesh and blood."

"Live ones? You don't really think there are any, do you?"

"They do. And they only have to produce one. A single living MIA to back up their claims. With the publicity that'd generate, Washington would be forced to take action."

He fell silent as the waiter came by to collect the empty beer bottles. Only when the man had left did Willy ask softly, "And where do I come in?"

"It's not you. It's your father. From what you've told me, there's a chance—a small one, to be sure—that he's still alive. If he is, I can help you find him. I can help you bring him home."

His words, uttered so quietly, so confidently, made Willy fall still. Guy could tell she was trying to read his face, trying to figure out what be wasn't telling her. And he wasn't telling her a lot.

"What do you get out of this?" she asked.

"You mean besides the pleasure of your company?"

"You said there was money involved. Since I'm not paying you, I assume someone else is. The Ariel Group? Are they offering you more than just expenses?"

"Move to the head of the class."

"How much?"

"For an honest to God live one? Two million."

"Two million
dollars?"

He squeezed her hand, hard. "Keep it down, will you? This isn't exactly public information."

She dropped her voice to a whisper. "You're serious? Two million?"

"Thafs their offer. Now you think about
my
offer. Work with me, and we could both come out ahead. You'd get your father back. I'd pick up a nice little retirement fund. A win-win situation." He grinned, knowing he had her now. She'd be stupid to refuse. And Willy Maitland was definitely not stupid. "I think you'll agree," he said. "It's a match made in heaven."

"Or hell," she muttered darkly. She sat back and gave him a look of pure cast iron. "You're nothing but a bounty hunter."

"If that's what you want to call me."

"I could call you quite a few things. None of them flattering."

"Before you start calling me names, maybe you should think about your options. Which happen to be pretty limited. The way I see it, you can go it alone, which so far hasn't gotten you a helluva lot of mileage. Or—" he leaned forward and beamed her his most convincing smile "—you could work with me."

Her mouth tightened. "I don't work with mercenaries."

"What've you got against mercenaries?"

"Just a minor matter—principle."

"It's the money that bothers you, isn't it? The fact that I'm doing it for cash and not out of the goodness of my heart."

"This isn't some big-game hunt! We're talking about
men.
Men whose families have wiped out their savings to pay worthless little Rambos like you! I know those families. Some of them are still hanging in, twisting around on that one shred of hope. And you know as well as I do that those soldiers aren't sitting around in some POW camp, waiting to be rescued. They're
dead."

"You think
your
old man's alive."

"He's a different story."

"Right. And every one of those five hundred other MIAs could be another 'different story.'"

"J happen to have evidence!"

"But you don't have the smarts it takes to find him." Guy leaned forward, his gaze hard on hers. In the last light of sunset, her face seemed alight with fire, her cheeks glowing a beautiful dusky red. "If he's alive, you can't afford to screw up this chance. And you may get only one chance to find him. Because I'll tell you now, the Vietnamese won't let you back in the country for another deluxe tour. Admit it, Willy. You need me."

"No," she shot back. "You need
me.
Without my help, how are you going to cash in on your 'live one'?"

"How're.you going to find him?"

She was the one leaning forward now, so close, he almost pulled back in surprise. "Don't underestimate me, sleazeball," she muttered.

"And don't overestimate yourself, Junior. It's not easy finding answers in this country. No one, nothing's ever what it seems here. A flicker in the eye, a break in the voice can mean all the difference in the world. You
need
a partner. And, hey, I'm not unreasonable. I'll even think about splitting the reward with you. Say, ten percent. That's money you never expected, just to let me—"

"I don't give a damn about the money!" She rose sharply to her feet. "Go get rich off someone else's old man." She spun around and walked away.

"Won't you even think about it?" he yelled.

She just kept marching away across the rooftop garden, oblivious to the curious glances aimed her way.

"Take it from me, Willy! You need me!"

A trio of Russian tourists, their faces ruddy from a few rounds of vodka, glanced up as she passed. One of the men raised his glass in a drunken salute. "Maybe you like Russian man better?" he shouted.

She didn't even break her stride. But as she walked away, every guest on that rooftop heard her answer, which came floating back with disarming sweetness over her shoulder. "Go to hellski."